With A Start
by E. M. Pink
Summary: The last thing Harry could remember was finishing his steak and kidney pie. He wakes up to find that his life has drastically changed to include wings, claws and the mostly animalistic mind of...a phoenix? HBP Compatible, nonslash. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS
1. Chapter 1: Waking

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_A/N: Don't ask me why this idea has taken such a strong hold of me. You can probably push off some of the blame to painlessj and her list of permanent or semi-permanent magical transformations, and to Leni Jess that (in my opinion and in my opinion only) rather butchered the idea of Harry somehow becoming a part-phoenix using Polyjuice potion. All I can snobbishly promise here's that it won't be Polyjuice potion, and that Lucius Malfoy will not be admiring Harry's muscles. _

_In fact, Harry will barely be admiring himself._

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**Waking**

Harry woke with a start, and, for all of the next five seconds, wondered where he was.

He shifted carelessly, meaning to get up, and it hit him. Or, rather, hurt him.

A sliver of excruciating pain sliced down his back once – twice – and only worsened as he tried to get up. There seemed to be something wrong with the bed underneath him – it was slippery, somehow, and it hurt, and scratched, and –

"Mr. Potter! Stop moving this _instant_ –" Madame Pomfrey's sharp, almost terrified voice halted his struggles, and Harry's panting was drowned out by the brisk footsteps of many. "Please remain calm –"

"What happened?" Harry demanded – no – coughed out, his voice seeming almost an octave higher. What on earth was going _on_ – he'd been eating, just _eating_, and then –

Memories seemed to flash thickly through his skull. Screaming – wrenching, physical pain, like fire in his flesh, like the very fires of hell had poured into his entire body all at once –

"Breathe, Potter!" snapped Pomfrey, and Harry tried, despite the crushing weight of hysteria on his chest, despite the debilitating pain knifing down his back – "_Quietus animus!"_ A sea of cold seemed to swamp his limbs, unnatural cold drifting through to his very bones like magic, intensifying the pain as fire and ice warred in the muscles of his back – "Albus – no magic – he's reacting again –"

"We'll lift him, then," came that voice, that familiar, almost hated voice, now filled with a fear that pierced straight through Harry – "Severus – _now_ –"

Hands seized him, and the air under his back felt like _heaven_, but no – the room, he could smell now, and it smelt horrible, like something was burning, like burnt meat –

Somehow he was folded awkwardly onto his knees, and a sudden weight seemed to unfurl over his back, like a slightly itchy cloak, and the hands left hold of him abruptly, as if something was wrong –

"Wha's – going on –" Harry got out somehow, seizing oddly pliant fistfuls of cloth from the bed under him to steady himself. His voice was so _high_ –

"Please, Harry, calm yourself," Dumbledore's voice said, still fearful, and the urge to attack him rose dizzyingly high in Harry, surprising him in its strength as his brain seemed to process that the Headmaster was weak at this moment, and was violating his territory, and deserved to be punished for such presumption, and –

_Territory?_

That alone compelled Harry into obedience, making him take deep, odd-sounding breaths – _ignore them for now, just ignore them_ – and relax his tense, heavily draped back.

"That's it, Potter," Snape said slowly, calmly, from his right. Too calmly – Harry couldn't help twisting violently around to see what on earth the other man could be thinking, being so fucking calm when Harry was in pain, probably enjoying it just as much as he'd enjoyed hearing the news about Sirius –

And then he saw red.

_Literally_.

_And gold_, he thought, dazedly. _Red and gold – on my back. The cloak_ – he swallowed, now, because it was not a cloak. It was – oh, Merlin, it couldn't be – _feathers_.

And Harry was rising shakily from the bed and looking around, wondering why everything within a metre was looking so scorched, and why there were so many feathers – _red and gold, don't forget that_, he reminded himself, a little hysterically – everywhere. EVERYWHERE –

"Harry, please breathe," Pomfrey was saying now, very gently, even as he slowly, slowly, so slowly, turned his head, so that he could disprove the thoughts whirling about in his head. _Surely those – feathers – didn't come from me. They're not – they can't be part of me, they_ can't – "Breathe, Harry," she whispered, still gentle, as his eyes began to really see – red and gold – growing out of his back, out of two slightly scaly _things_ protruding out of his back, which felt oddly weighted down by the feathers, because they _were_ feathers, and he was starting to think those were – he flexed his back muscles sharply, as if to get the horrible joking things off, and –

Footsteps scattered heavily around him as something very large and red flapped past his eye, making him duck convulsively to the ground, thinking that, from the way Madame Pomfrey was shouting, something was attacking him. But the flapping kept on and on as he kept tearing at the thing on his back, tears of fear, real, gut-stripping fear pooling in his eyes –

And then it hit him, again. _Wings_.

As if by magic, the things above him stopped flapping, and everything was still, or almost. He could hear heavy, panicked breathing around him, and could sort of hear Pomfrey's slightly panicky voice in the distance, but what he could really hear was what he was saying to himself.

_Wings_, Harry thought. _I – I have wings_.

They flapped again above him, and such a jolt of fear and anger and bewilderment ran through Harry that the pain came back, blinding in its intensity, making him scream – or shrill, his voice was so bloody fucking _high_ and he didn't know why or what was going _on _–

Thankfully, mercifully, darkness came.

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Preview of Chapter 2: And Again

Harry abruptly found his eyes were open, and he was staring at something that looked very much like – like claws.

He closed his eyes again, very quickly.

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_A/N: Not much to say, apart from an addendum to the disclaimer above: I am writing this story for fun. Which means it probably won't be as long as my others, and might never come under the knife of my current beta. _

_As always, it really doesn't mean you can't review, or anything :D I had fun writing this - hopefully you'll have fun reading it too. _

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	2. Chapter 2: And Again

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_A/N: You're still reading? Really? I suppose a real disclaimer might be in order, then, as you're obviously serious. _

_This is NOT benefiting me in any way at all. JKR certainly did not sanction this, and probably does not share my rather odd theories as to how phoenixes behave. _

_I do guarantee, however, that you'll be morbidly interested in the theory I put out. Sort of._

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**2 –**** And Again**

Waking again was harder. Harry had crashed spectacularly into the darkness, cool, numbing darkness that did not ask him why he had red-and-gold wings, and sounded like a –

No.

"Harry."

He tried not to start as the sharply concerned tone of Madame Pomfrey lanced through him, so he couldn't feel his w– good god, they weren't his, they were an aberration, and they would be removed. Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

_Dumbledore can remove them. He can, and he will, or I'll – I'll rip his heart out _–

And with that thought came a frighteningly detailed image of how exactly he would go about it, where precisely in the chest he would dip his claws, and twist, and _wrench_ – wait…claws. _Claws?_

Harry abruptly found his eyes were open, and he was staring at something that looked very much like – like claws.

He closed his eyes again, very quickly.

"Harry, we need you to stay calm," Pomfrey was saying soothingly. "We can't help you if you don't stay calm –"

"Can oo ta' 'em off?" Harry tried very hard not to scream – his voice was even higher now, oh god, like a kid's –

"We can't do anything if you aren't awake, and we can't examine you if you're not awake, and _calm_," Pomfrey urged him, voice sounding closer by as soft footsteps clattered around him. "We need you calm and awake to help." Harry nodded miserably, wondering why his neck felt so bloody stiff. "Albus, Severus, you can lift him now –"

"No –" Harry said sharply, wondering why it came out so damn high – like a squawk, nearly, but hands were already gently turning him and folding him oddly onto the bed, so that his feet were dangling and scraping the floor. Why they were scraping, he did not know, and knew better than to ask, or even open his eyes as gentle hands seemed to drift carefully over his – now that he thought about it, painfully tender back. "Nor Schna'e –" he stubbornly persisted, hissing sharply as one of the hands pressed at a particularly tender spot near the base of his skull, meaning to tell them he didn't _want_ Snape touching him anywhere, or even –

"Albus…?" Madame Pomfrey's voice seemed oddly forced, wavering somehow as she addressed Dumbledore, who had to be nearby, because Harry could smell an odd, whimsical scent that somehow recalled the irritating old bastard for him – "Shall I – should I let him sleep now, while –"

"No. There is no purpose in that," Dumbledore's voice said wearily. Harry shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he did so – he felt so stretched, as if he'd been strung up somewhere by all his limbs, or been, well, stretched on one of those torture machines he still hazily remembered from his primary school in Surrey.

_A rack, that's what it was _–

"Harry," Dumbledore said, a chair scraping close by, the scent of wood flaring suddenly in his nostrils as he wondered who was sitting down. "We have…unpleasant news…" Harry lifted his head clumsily, wondering why on earth he still felt so rubbery, and tried to open his eyes.

A minute of the weirdest colour scheme for the hospital wing he'd ever seen convinced him that he'd be best off looking at his hands, or – wait – he blinked twice, and somehow things seemed to stretch and contort into normalcy, before his very eyes. Harry carefully turned his head in Dumbledore's direction, so he could really see what the old man thought of whatever the fuck was going on, and, after a sharp, odd-sounding breath (the timbre of which he carefully shoved into a rapidly filling box of Things Not To Question Right Now in his mind), spoke again, or tried to.

"'M lisenin'," he said carefully, trying unsuccessfully not to bite himself. _What is wrong with my mouth? And my – my voice_ –

Things Not To Question Right Now! He needed to be calm for them to get the fucking wings off, because they weren't his, and he didn't want freakish wings on his body, no matter how well he could control them, and – _how on earth was I doing that? Was I_ really –

Things. Not. To Question. Right Now.

"The last thing you remember is eating, isn't it, Harry?" Dumbledore said kindly, face seeming to swim in and out of focus now that Harry tried _to_ focus. Things. Not to Question. He nodded, feeling suddenly miserable with how cold he was.

"'M col'," he said miserably. Highly.

"I understand," Dumbledore said, voice a little sharper than before. "In a minute or two, you won't be – just stay calm." He rearranged his – _green? Red? It looks like both_ – robes slightly, in jerky movements, before continuing. "You have been poisoned, Harry –"

"Headmaster," Pomfrey said warningly, as heat seemed to flare gently through Harry's stomach. "He's –"

" – _contained_," Dumbledore said, cutting her off. "Calm. Without _distraction,"_ he added fiercely, and Madame Pomfrey moved a little away – _was that her? She looks smaller, or something_ – "You were poisoned, Harry, and you would certainly have died, if not for –"

"B'wha' does tha' mean?" Harry said, the heat swimming deliciously up his arms. This certainly wasn't worse than death, if the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him –"

" – your transformation," Dumbledore finished, colour seeping slowly into the pale – _didn't see they were_ that _pale_ – cheeks of the headmaster. "It saved you – you must remember that –"

It.

That was it – something was growing in him, growing _on him_, and he was damned if he wasn't going to see what it was –

"Miwor," Harry said, urgently, fear coursing through him as the warmth spread. "Nee' – miwror –" He stared helplessly at the old man, willing him to understand, wishing he could shove the knowledge into those dimmed blue eyes –

A dizzying sensation of flight and falling passed over him, and Dumbledore started violently in front of him as he crumpled to the bed, a headache knifing into his skull.

"Albus, I told you –"

"Mirror," Dumbledore whispered, very very quietly. "He – he wants one, Poppy…"

Silence crashed into the room, and Harry felt a trickle of horror between his shoulder blades. What could possibly be so wrong with him that they didn't want him to see himself? The wings hadn't been that bad, had they?

_As long as they can take them – and it – off, there's nothing wrong, is there?_

"Potter," the brisk, contained voice of Professor Snape penetrated abruptly through his daze. "H-here." Harry stared at the pallid – too pallid face of his professor, wonder buzzing dully in his head as the man delicately set a medium-sized mirror in his lap, face down.

Despite his dread, he stretched out a hand and picked it up.

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Preview of Chapter 3: Ugly Realisations

Harry tried not to scream.

His face was – god –

He dropped the mirror abruptly, heat flaring up his arms and torso as tears of horror began to pool in his eyes, splashing hugely onto the sizzling back of the mirror –

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	3. Chapter 3: Ugly Realisations

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_A/N: Disclaimer applies. Just read, I know that's what you really want to do by now._

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**3 ****– ****Ugly Realisations**

Harry tried not to scream.

His face was – god –

He dropped the mirror abruptly, heat flaring up his arms and torso as tears of horror began to pool in his eyes, splashing hugely onto the sizzling back of the mirror –

Sizzling. Sizzling - ?

" – five kinds of _fool_ –" Madame Pomfrey was shrieking at the trembling black form of Snape nearby. "What part of _don't let him see himself_ do you not understand, you – you IDIOT –"

Hands, old hands stretched out carefully to take the fallen mirror out of his lap, but Harry swatted them away, ignoring the cries of dismay and warning – "Potter, _drop that_ this instant –"

And looked again.

"Potter –"

"Shut up and let me see," Harry said tersely, taking in the slightly mottled, darker skin, the red that seemed to have seeped into his hair everywhere. _Almost as red as Ginny's_, he found himself saying inwardly, his thought process a little jerky. He looked like a completely different person – _even my_ nose _has changed_ – and –

"Potter – !"

"Try and take it from me," Harry hissed, the sound disconcertingly musical. He tried not to think about that, in the interest of taking one thing at a time. _If my body transforming on me can be called 'one thing'._

"Severus, leave him be," Dumbledore said wearily, and Harry was surprised to see the black robes withdraw from out of the corner of his eye. It made him wonder, again, _uselessly_, why on earth they were so afraid of him –

And then he saw the claws.

_Those were – those were my hands_ –

The mirror clattered away again, this time, to the floor, where it was snatched up by a Summoning Charm from someone. As Harry stared at the remnants of his hands, he dazedly thought he'd bet that it was Snape –

"Harry, we think –" Pomfrey was coming closer, but for fuck's sake, why wouldn't they just let him alone, he was the one with the bloody wings, the _wings_ –

"Let me finish!" Harry couldn't care less if the world was ending now, he looked – something had happened to him, and he didn't know why or even how and he'd been eating, just a few moments ago –

_I can eat_, Harry thought desperately, remembering Hermione's admonishment that he wasn't eating enough at lunch. _I'll eat – who's got a Time-Turner, send me back,_ please –

"Potter, Madame Pomfrey was speaking to you." Snape's tone was low and deliberately insulting and _in Harry's territory_ and before he knew what he was doing, his new, garish, twisted body had given the approval for him to stand up and slit the bastard open from top to bottom, in a nicely asymmetrically jagged line – "Pot_terk!" _

"HARRY JAMES POTTER, PUT HIM DOWN – !"

Harry suddenly realised he was staring at Snape's slowly, deliciously asphyxiating face, and understood what was very wrong about the picture. The presumptuous fool wasn't dead yet, so –

Something hit him in the back like a burst of ice, and suddenly Snape was asphyxiating under the cover of Gryffindor colours. Harry somehow fought above the manic urge to keep pressing the life away – _see, he's limp, now_ – and let him go, only to have what felt like a whipcord of raw ice sneak around his shoulders and bind them tightly.

Harry cursed and, for some reason unknown to him, tried to fly, or –

_BOOM_.

The room shook violently as an unearthly fire seemed to light before his very eyes, as if it was doing all it could to keep him in place, to keep him caged, like an animal, like the animal he was now, and Harry suddenly couldn't stand for it, because he'd been caged all fucking summer, and Sirius – _oh Sirius_ –

That thought sang through his mind for what felt like an age, and the aching muscles in his back abruptly relaxed, wings drooping heavily to the ground and taking him with them. More ice whipped around him – securely, but not tight enough that the urge to escape, to _fly_ rose enough in him for him to try to –

_My head hurts_, Harry thought desperately, only just recognising the shaky _Ennervate_ in the background as Pomfrey's. He felt so destabilised, so horribly out of balance, especially in the stone room, which reeked of humans and medicine and burns and suffering, and –

_How am I smelling that! _Harry screamed at himself. _What happened to me_ –

"Harry," Dumbledore's voice, even wearier, momentarily breached the iron clamps of panic clanging in Harry's ears. "Please listen to me –"

"He – he should be _stunned_," Professor Snape's voice spat out, in between coughs. "He is clearly dangerous to everyone and most of all to himself, Headmaster –"

"_Why did you do that?"_ Pomfrey almost shouted, obviously in Snape's direction. "Do you know how strong he is? Did you _check?"_

"No, Poppy, don't blame the dangerous animal on the floor, blame _me_ –"

The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed strangely in the room, silencing even Dumbledore's laborious breaths. Harry twisted curiously in his bindings, despite the raw confusion that seemed to have latched onto him permanently – _that almost sounded like a slap_ –

"_You could have DIED!"_ Madame Pomfrey roared, the raw emotion in her voice shockingly intense. "_I don't care what you think of your life – I've saved it enough that I WANT TO SEE IT CONTINUE!"_

"Poppy, please –" Dumbledore muttered, sounding obviously shaken.

"Into my office with you," she snapped, as if she hadn't heard Dumbledore's entreaty, sounds of her hustling of the (again, obviously) stunned, unresisting Snape away from Harry. "If you won't be careful around a _dangerous creature_, as you call him, then you won't have to –"

"_Poppy, please_ –" A door slammed hard, making Harry twitch abruptly in his bindings. _Pomfrey must be really angry _–

"Don't _Poppy please_ me! I told you he'd be useless," she spat at Dumbledore, voice bitter with some indescribable emotion. "Potter, you'll get a hold of yourself, do you understand? We are _trying_ to help you. We are _trying_ to find something, _anything_ that will enable us to understand your situation. Until then, you must control yourself, especially around that – that _idiot_ in my office, do you understand?" Madame Pomfrey's stout boots stopped in front of Harry's nodding head. "Good." The boots pivoted slightly – "Headmaster? You were speaking to him," – and walked away.

Harry felt the icy bonds shiver around him and fall away into nothing, and saw a hand near him, Dumbledore's hand. He took it without looking – paused to question how on earth he'd seen it from the position he'd been lying in – shook his head.

Did it really matter? Harry followed Dumbledore's gesturing arm back to his bed, which looked strangely charred, making Harry wonder if that had been him, too. _For all I know, it could have been. I just wish I_ knew –

"Please remain calm," Dumbledore muttered, eyes averted, resting on his red-and-green-covered knees. He looked straight at Harry, who nearly flinched at the amount of tiredness and worry concentrated in that gaze. "Please."

Harry nodded. Whatever the hell was driving him to – to lose control, like that, wouldn't be in the driving seat again.

Or so he hoped.

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Preview of Chapter 4: The Truth Appears

"You were poisoned," Dumbledore said, haltingly.

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	4. Chapter 4: The Truth Appears

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_A/N: Didn't you just looove the sneaky Poppy/Severus undertones in the last one? I'm such a perverted thinker, honestly. _

_And now, for the exposition!_

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**4 ****– ****The Truth Appears**

"You were poisoned," Dumbledore says, haltingly. "We managed to retrieve a sample of what you were eating and drinking at the time, thanks to your astute friends, and Professor Snape has been testing it –"

"Poppy, let me out this _instant _–" Snape's muffled voice sounded unnecessarily loud to Harry's ears, and he twisted his head that way, only to see a stern-looking Madame Pomfrey bustling about her table, on which a cauldron was now bubbling thickly above a spurt of blue flame. She was acting like she couldn't hear anything but the sound of the cauldron, and it jolted Harry, that familiar sense of the woman's disgust for anything unconnected with the good health of her patients –

"Harry," Dumbledore said, again, and he returned his attention to him, before realising just how far round his head had turned – "Harry. You must be calm," Dumbledore's voice brought him sharply back from the brink of a horrified scream, and Harry practically dived onto the bed and opened his wings without thinking, for shelter – "Can you hear me?"

"Yesh," Harry said, a little pathetically, wondering why he felt safer under the cover of the wings. It was a nice feeling – pity they'd have to go –

"Professor Snape tested the suspect food and drink, and found that your steak-and-kidney pie was poisoned with a rare variant of phoenix tear solution. One," Dumbledore's voice grew more agitated, "that had probably been altered with a specific Dark spell, so it would reverse the normal healing process of the tears, and kill you."

Harry gulped, mind racing – Voldemort was obviously behind this, but he wasn't quite sure how.

"Professor Snape, as you can probably guess, was most alarmed on discovering that you had survived the poison," Dumbledore continued. Harry poked his head out from under his feather shield and stared at the man – _what does he mean, 'most alarmed'? Snape's probably the only person who knows how to_ make _the thing…_ "He was alarmed, Harry, because the potion is immediately fatal, without exception. Egestion of it, or rather, removal of it, speeds the rate of death. To the knowledge of the wizarding world, he only known method of surviving the administration of such a potion, Harry, is to become a phoenix oneself."

"No," Harry said quietly, eyes still trained on Dumbledore, clearing his throat hard, which seemed to make a difference, seemed to help him clear his speech, if only for a sentence or so. "I can't – I didn't –"

"No, Harry, not of your own free will," Dumbledore said kindly. "Rather, your mother's sacrifice, and possibly the fact that you have already been healed by phoenix tears –"

"My mum's – but – Voldemort –"

"Negated the properties of the sacrifice as regards to himself, and himself alone." Harry stayed silent, now fighting hot tears, tears that seemed even more eager to fall than usual, eager enough that he let them. He ducked his head back under his – the feathers, just in case. "The sacrifice's effects still stand, Harry – the wards on the Dursleys' home would not work, else." Harry tried to stop crying, but couldn't – it felt almost infinitely satisfying and horrifying how much he was weeping into the pillow, and though the had the awful idea that Dumbledore knew he was crying, could not bring himself to stop. "What we need right now, Harry, is your cooperation – myself and Madame Pomfrey will need to ask you some questions, which will sometimes feel invasive, but need to be answered so that we know exactly what to do."

"An' Shnape?" Harry mumbled, sniffing slightly.

"Professor Snape will likely not be seeing you for the next few days, until your condition has stabilised somewhat, Harry," Dumbledore replied, perfectly straight faced, Madame Pomfrey harrumphing in the background.

"He'll stay out of your way or be drugged out of your way, Potter," she said briskly. "There's no one I know like that – that _man_ for disobeying simple instructions –"

"Unsh-unstable?" Harry said, heart sinking as he fought to clear his throat again. Before Dumbledore could answer, Madame Pomfrey was bustling over to him and moving him firmly out of the way, poking carefully (and respectfully, some part of his brain insisted) at his feathers as she spoke.

"I should think so, Potter – you had a tantrum when you woke for the first time, and just tried to put an end to our Professor Snape. Justifiable, I might add – he was deliberately insulting." The – now that he thought about it – alien-feeling, new-seeming part of his brain preened arrogantly, muttering about his territory, and Harry tried to make sense of what she'd said – just because _he'd_ thought Snape had been insulting to him didn't mean much on the scale of things, did it?

"Bu – bu' he'sh alwaysh li' tha'," he forced out, starting to relax the wings as Pomfrey made invisible notes and commented under her breath about his – markings? – and –

"Then he's a fool for thinking he could be like that in this situation," Pomfrey snapped, stroking his right wing thoughtfully, the disapproving expression on her face at odds with her gentle gesture. "You are clearly traumatised, and it is highly unlikely that whatever saved you saved you simply by changing your physical makeup. The workings of magic are never foolish, and always thorough, despite what we might think." She sniffed. "I am sure that thinking like a phoenix must come into surviving that poison somehow – Albus? Do you remember what incantation is needed to activate the –"

"_La vostra morte è necessaria me,"_ a muffled, disgruntled-sounding voice said, interrupting. "Literally, 'your death is necessary to me' – one of the most powerful and exhausting Dark Italian rituals that _exist_. If I had any idea –"

"Don't even _think_ of leaving that room, Professor!"

"I wasn't trying, you foolish woman!"

"Severus! Poppy!" Dumbledore gave the bristling Madame Pomfrey a level look, and regained the seat she'd ousted him from as she grudgingly moved to the other side of Harry's bed. "We have more important things to do than argue over the behaviour that was exhibited by Harry and Professor Snape this afternoon, am I understood?" Pomfrey huffed and stalked off to her potion-table-thing, and a snort could be heard from the vicinity of Madame Pomfrey's office.

"She said I wash unshtable," Harry pointed out uselessly.

"You are," Professor Dumbledore agreed, surprising him. "Your feather coloration changes in your sleep, and your pattern has changed five times over the last three days. Yes, three days," Dumbledore said, blue eyes serious and slightly sad. "You were out for most of the first day, I believe – but that does not matter now. What matters," he said, shifting wearily in his seat, "is where we go from here."

Harry nodded slowly, and struggled into a seating position, trying hard not to hit Dumbledore inn the face with his right wing, and not quite succeeding. After Madame Pomfrey had finished berating them both for being careless enough to let him sit up and tartly asking if Dumbledore would be finished talking to her patient by the end of the month, Harry turned his face to Dumbledore's, his back straightening resolutely.

"I'm ready to lishten," he said softly, and Dumbledore nodded and began.

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Preview of Chapter 5: Transpose

The next few days were absolutely horrible. Harry woke each day, ready and raring to go, swearing to himself that it _must_ be a dream and he _must_ have a fever to be imagining things that were so real, and every day he was proved wrong by not much more than the feathers on the wings on his back.

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	5. Chapter 5: Transpose

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_A/N: Disclaimer! Applies! _

_In which Harry angsts a bit, and you sigh because it's not quite as forlorn and tear-provoking as this summary implies. _

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**5 ****–**** Transpose**

The next few days were absolutely horrible. Harry woke each day, ready and raring to go, swearing to himself that it must be a dream and he must have a fever to be imagining things that were so real, and every day he was proved wrong by not much more than the feathers on the wings on his back.

He could probably call them _his _wings, now. His temporary wings, that is. They had redeemed themselves over the past four or five days, yielding to his strong impulse to hide from the truth by closing over him like a shield, balancing him out when he tried to walk on his new, grotesquely twisted feet. Harry snorted sleepily, quashing the urge to roll over. Hermione would probably call them foot-claw hybrids, or something suitably intelligent, and –

He shut his eyes. Ron and Hermione, as far as he'd been able to understand, were coming to visit tomorrow morning, to see the monstrosity he'd become. Harry ground his teeth – one feature that had stayed resolutely the same over the last few days – in anger and helplessness. He'd argued and argued with Dumbledore, told him to just let it wait, let them wait until they'd figured out the problem and put a fucking stop to it and taken the bloody wings off before the old man paraded him for Ron and Hermione. He couldn't stand to let anyone see him like this, much less Ron or Hermione, who would undoubtedly fuss over him and feel sorry for him and –

_Aargh!_

_Need to stop thinking_, Harry sullenly told himself, and just like that, his mind went blank. He blinked in surprise for a moment, then cursed under his breath. That had been one of the weird things happening to him over the duration of his stay here in the most private corner of the Hospital Wing, and that was saying something. His mind had become abnormally…abnormally – _obedient, that's the only word for it _- obedient, clearing of his morbid and unhappy thoughts on direct request, and putting itself to little tasks like imagining Snape being strangled to death by the collar of his irritating black robes with unaccustomed fervour.

Harry turned over very, very carefully, taking care that his left wing did not somehow wedge underneath him as he turned onto his side. To say that the mind thing was the weirdest thing happening to him now would be actually impossible – the weird things that were occurring in his life at the moment were so numerous and so varied and individually upsetting in their own way that Harry could hardly even think to choose the actual weirdest thing of the lot.

To his horror, his mind began to put itself to the task. Harry found his head buzzing busily with thoughts of how weird everything happening was, and could only watch, so to speak, in horror and disbelief, as his abnormally sharpened (did he mention that in conjunction to the weird obedience thing? Well, he should have) mind began to sort through the list.

_Well, there's the wing thing. They're weird as hell, and even weirder because they've changed colour and pattern twice in the last five days, and Madame Pomfrey actually says that's an improvement, and that I'm stabilising. How would she know? This has never happened to anyone before, so I doubt that – anyway._

_Next on the list: finger-claw hybrid keeps mutating. And by mutating, I mean changing sporadically from my normal, bloody perfect-can-I-keep-them-for-goodness'-sake hands into orangey, violent-looking claws. Only plus side of that is that that bloody wanker of a Snape stays away from me when I'm clawed, so to speak. _

_Oh, and my foot-claw hybrids haven't changed back. To feet, that is. They change colour occasionally, cycling through every orange and red that can possibly be known to man (more reds when I get cold). Only benefit of them is the possibility of kicking Snape with them._

_Some part of my mind thinks I have a territory, and it is here. It also thinks that Dumbledore and Pomfrey belong to me as vassals, and that Snape is a usurper, potential rival, and should be watched at all times. I can't blame it for the last bit, but the territory thing, and the thing with Dumbledore and Pomfrey? Sickening._

_When Dumbledore brought Fawkes up to see me just to see if fresh phoenix tears would do anything for me, I attacked him. Needless to say, that territory-grabbing vassal-polluter's not been here again. _

_Insults. New ones._ Weird _ones. Enough said._

_Pomfrey and Dumbledore keep telling me that I catch fire when really upset. I haven't seen or felt it so far, so I'm remaining very sceptical (and very hopeful that it is NOT TRUE). Benefit of catching fire every single time someone ticks you off? There's no point to even answering._

_I react badly to spells of all kinds now, enough that even Snape looks concerned (and I mean concerned, not Snape-forcing-his-ugly-face-into-unfamiliar-emotion-of-concern). But who wouldn't, when a _Wingardium leviosa _on just one of my feathers drives me to literally take to wing in the Hospital Wing. At least, a Stunner just makes me mildly dizzy for a bit, and most serious hexes only disorientate or hurt me for a few minutes. Imagine if every spell aimed in my direction brought about a disproportionately big reaction as the levitation charm did…all Voldemort would have to do would be to cast a Stinging Hex and watch me die of nerve damage with a smile on his snaky face._

_Speaking of Voldemort, still no dreams. The only dreams I have lately involve lots of blood, claws, feathers and something I really hope is not my cock, but looks like it. In really bizarre settings, too. Benefit of this is obvious, but becomes less so if I actively try to remember what went on in my current dreams._

_Talking of bizarre settings, I really really want to be in the Forbidden Forest almost all the time. Snape came in smelling like the Forest yesterday afternoon (collecting ingredients for the fifth batch of Stabilising Potion for me. I've gone through four batches in days, because Pomfrey won't let me eat or drink anything else apart from it and water), and I practically pinned him to the door and slobbered all over him. No benefit to this, I think – anything that has me touching Snape voluntarily should be forcibly dragged from my body and blood._

_Oh, and finally, speaking of blood, my blood is all weird now. It's very, very red now, redder than my feathers, and (Madame Pomfrey says) it keeps changing compositions, switching between human and phoenix and a weird hybrid of the two. She says they'll know if they can cure me if it eventually stabilises to a finite, essentially separate side-by-side mixture of human and phoenix blood. I think she told me that (completely indecipherable crap) to shut me up when I kept asking her when the hell the wings and everything else was going._

_Now, as for which of those weird things is the most pathetically weird _–

Harry sat up very quickly. He didn't know what time it was, or what he was going to do when he found out, but there had to be something he could do apart from lying in bed and angsting stupidly about his temporary condition. Harry felt his wings flex behind him as he stood up unsteadily on his bed, and felt an unfamiliar surge of wellbeing as he half-stepped, half-jumped to the floor, feeling foolish. It had been the only way he could get out of bed without assistance since yesterday, when Madame Pomfrey had cast some spell on his knees to determine what was right (or wrong, as the case held recently) with them. They had stiffened almost immediately, and he'd been angry, feverish and unable to move around on his own for the rest of the day.

And had had a head full of fantasies of breaking Pomfrey's knees, too, he couldn't forget that. Harry grimaced, remembering the vivid pictures and _sounds_ he'd imagined – he'd practically grovelled for Dreamless Sleep for the day, and been pathetically grateful to Snape and the fact that potions still worked on him. Incidentally, that was why he was up in this dark hour -

Harry sighed, moving quietly about the small room, restlessness seething in his limbs. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been less happy to be in the Hospital Wing – or, rather, in a weird, high-roofed little room adjoining the Hospital wing. When he wasn't obsessing over doing violence to his vassals (he'd given up trying not to refer to Pomfrey and Dumbledore like that yesterday evening) or to the usurper (he'd not even tried to give up calling Snape that), or feeling distressed at how red he looked lately (the wings, the hair, the blood, the feet-claws…), he was yearning to be outside. Blasting a hole through the wall somehow (_somehow_) had changed from being an idea only for the mentally deranged to a task that might just be possible, and wouldn't it be lovely if he could actually stretch his wings out without hitting anything and _fly_, really fly, not that pathetic thing he thought was flying –

Harry sighed, blinking hard, surprised to feel – those weren't tears in his eyes, were they?

Were they?

They _were_. Harry stumbled stiffly into the tiny bathroom, which was tucked away in smashing privacy behind a bloody curtain next to his bed. He ignored the tingling sensation of anger that this was happening to him, that he was being caged in a miniscule little room and kept out of sight and that anyone even bothered to try and _do_ this instead of just shooting him down with a Killing Curse, because that would have been quicker and far less painful and would have meant he could see Sirius and his mother and father and everyone, _everyone_ would be happy, and they would all just soar away into the clouds and beat their wings happily along with his, and –

_Wings?_

Harry looked up at himself, and was horrified to see the silvery trail of tears winding down his cheeks and the drip-drip of strangely hot tears down his bare chest. All he could think of for a moment was that he wished he could go back to wearing pyjama shirts again, and he'd never thought he'd miss even the tatty old one that he hated but never quite got round to getting rid of, and that set him off again. Wings seemed to pervade his morose thoughts more than was strictly necessary, but Harry was too busy crying and feeling oddly comforted as his wings folded round him to care.

It took the realisation that the tiny window in the side of the room was now letting in the morning sun instead of merely being ornamental to shake Harry out of the bizarre fit that had taken hold of him, and it took half an hour for him to convince himself to get back into – well, onto the bed. He didn't have sheets anymore, because Pomfrey said it was a waste, because he burnt them up in his sleep the last time.

Which he didn't believe, of course, because that was where Harry Potter drew the line. Wings and claws and claw-foot hybrids were all very well, but setting fire to himself just did. Not. Happen. Whether he could remember the smell of smoke or not was immaterial.

And the fact that he was longingly thinking of bathing in fire (however he'd actually accomplish that) was entirely besides the point, too.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 6: Friends Forever? Not Quite

Harry knew it was going to be a real trial when even Hermione was lost for words. Ron was red in the face, and kept avoiding his eye as he struggled to keep still in the downright prison of the cocoon of blankets Madame Pomfrey had forcefully swaddled him in 'to keep him warm'.

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	6. Chapter 6: Friends Forever? Not Quite

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_A/N: Yes, the mandatory Ron-Hermione-Harry Conversation About Harry's Doom has arrived! Feast your eyes…_

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**6 – Friends Forever? Not Quite **

Harry knew it was going to be a real trial when even Hermione was lost for words. Ron was red in the face, and kept avoiding his eye as he struggled to keep still in the downright prison of the cocoon of blankets Madame Pomfrey had forcefully swaddled him in 'to keep him warm'.

Apparently, that was the code phrase for 'to make sure you don't kill your friends', because Harry had been subtly trying to wrestle his way out of the bloody blankets, and Ron and Hermione had been watching him do it and pretending not to notice he was uncomfortable. Harry tried not to think of his vassal – _Pomfrey, dammit_ – actually telling his friends to be careful of him, and, failing that, tried not to think of breaking her knees again.

Because, honestly, who else would think to make literal chains out of blankets?

"Well, you don't look too bad," Hermione finally forced out, eyes now pleading with Ron, as if to say, _help me out, you git_.

_Don't let him hurt get hurt because you don't like how he looks!_ Harry muttered inwardly, affecting Hermione's shrill – _yes, shrill_ – voice to himself as he glared daggers at her.

"Yeah, Harry," Ron muttered. Harry felt a hysterical laugh bubble up from deep within as he couldn't stop himself from saying –

"Oh just say it, I could put the entire Weasley family to shame. Just look, even my chest hair is red now – "

Ron let out a strangled laugh, and reddened furiously when Hermione gave him a hard look. "Well, it's _true_…"

"It's not likely to make him feel any better about this whole thing, is it?" she said angrily. "Honestly, Ron – "

"Do you know what else is red?" Harry demanded. "The hair on my legs. The hair under my armpits. The hair on my _pubes_ – "

"_Harry_ – " Hermione gasped, colouring rapidly.

"Oh, I did _not_ need to know that," Ron muttered.

"I have claws for feet!" Harry was half shouting, now. "Sometimes, _for hands too_ – I'm going crazy in this bloody bed half the time because I want to be outside so bad that it makes me cry like a two year old in my nonexistent bathroom!" Both of his friends had stopped trying to say anything, with such horrified looks on their faces that Harry forced himself to lower his tone of voice, at the very least. "What I'm trying to say… Look, Hermione, there is no way known to man to make me feel better about being this way. There just isn't, all right? The only thing keeping me going is the fact that my va – er, Dumbledore and Pomfrey are working hard to change me back, honestly…" Harry's voice trailed off as he realised his friends were edging away from the bed. "What?"

"Er – your arm sort of – caughtfireforabit," Hermione got out jerkily, as Harry felt himself go pale as he suddenly caught the overpoweringly sharp scent of smoke. "I'm so sorry, Harry – "

Harry gave a little sort of half-sob, half-hysterical laugh, and suddenly it was all okay, because he was crying again, and though Ron looked like the last place he wanted to be was on the side of the room Harry's sobbing face was facing, it was okay, because Hermione had gotten up behind him, and was very gently touching his hair and telling him it would be okay.

"So, was it a potion or a spell?" he heard her say in what seemed like the distant background. "Harry…are you…"

"Potion," he said simply, after thoroughly clearing his throat, not wanting to become all loose-tongued like had happened when he'd cried last in front of one of his vassals – Pomfrey, to be exact. He'd learned that clearing his throat seemed to alert his insane brain to the fact that he needed to talk again (or something like that), and that –

It just _helped_, for crying out loud.

"Snape said it was a nameless poison that only turns deadly when activated by one of the darkest of Dark Rituals, but he couldn't keep saying that," Harry got out, turning over very, very carefully so he wouldn't traumatise Ron further. "So he started calling it the Potion of Certain Death."

"What?" Ron's voice sounded far less horrified now, and more amused. "But – you didn't die, so it can't be a very certain potion, can it?"

"Oh, it is," Harry said, a little grimly, slightly relishing the expression of morbid curiosity on his friends' faces. "The only reason I'm alive, if you can call this being alive, is because of my mum. Again."

"But what about…" Hermione interjected, sounding puzzled and not a bit apprehensive. "Fourth year. The – the graveyard – "

"Only works between me and Voldemort," Harry said, casting her an apologetic look for cutting her off. "He just broke my mum's spell with regards to himself – or, at least, that's what Snape thinks. I don't think I'd be willing to test that out, though…"

"Even if you already have?" Ron suggested, a little too innocently.

"Stop it, Ron. Would you rather have wings than be dead?" Harry paused for a moment, feeling sheepish as he considered his question. "Well, it sounds harsh when you say it – "

"Right," Ron muttered sarcastically.

" – but really, it's torture being like this," Harry said eagerly. "It's not just things that could probably cool, like the wings – my mind is really, really fucked up now. I keep thinking really weird things, like of how I can permanently mark this room as my territory, and how Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey are my vassals, and – "

"Vassals? Are you serious?" Hermione interrupted, looking more curious than horrified, as, Harry irritably thought, she rightly should be. "Do they know?"

"Is Voldemort invited for lunch?" Harry burst out. "Oh, I can really see that, Hermione – 'Oh, and, by the way, Professor, you're my slave now' – "

"A vassal isn't a slave, that's more like a servant – "

"It doesn't _matter_, Hermione, it's still bloody weird, and it still bothers me! I attacked Fawkes when Dumbledore had him down here to help me, for crying out loud – "

"What?" Hermione actually looked genuinely worried now, Harry would give her that. But he decided to forfeit his approval when she spoke again, voice very thoughtful. "Were you defending your territory?"

"And my vassals!" Harry answered, getting angry at that impertinent little bastard all over again. "He was trilling at Dumbledore as if he wasn't practically covered in my feathers, and…" Harry trailed off as he abruptly realised what he was saying, but quickly regained his voice. "Do you see what I'm saying?" Ron seemed to, and Harry couldn't help adding, "And there's worse than this, oh, there's worse – "

"I'm not sure I want to – " Ron began, but Harry was keeping nothing back, both of them deserved to hear –

"Snape came in from getting new ingredients for my potions the other day, and I _jumped_ him." Satisfaction surged through Harry as he watched Ron's face turn an odd colour of green, and he turned to Hermione, who was looking only slightly better. "I wanted to feel his skin on mine, to rub up against him, just so that his smell would rub off onto me, so I could smell like the Forbidden Forest too – "

"We hear you, Harry," Hermione said hastily, but Harry wasn't finished, oh no –

"If my vassals hadn't been there, I'd probably have dragged him out of his clothes and pinned him to the bed, just so I could smell him _properly_ – "

"_We hear you, all right?"_

Harry relaxed onto his bed, smirking bitterly all over his face. "Why do you think Pomfrey practically chained me to the bed? If you'd been in the Forest or near it within the last few hours, Hermione, I'd probably have burned my way out of this thing and draped myself all over you by now." Hermione reddened dramatically, but not as badly as Ron, who looked oddly angry that Harry would say something like that. "The point is, Hermione, this is _serious_. I can't live like this – what if all Malfoy or someone else had to do to get me alone was to present himself to me after going down the Forest for a walk? I can't stay in this bloody room for the rest of my life, and if my vas – if Dumbledore and Pomfrey _don't_ figure out how to change me back, I may bloody well have to."

"We're sorry, Harry," Ron said, very quietly, voice level despite the alarm that pervaded his entire posture. "If there's anything I can do – "

"There is," Harry said, feeling a little guilty at the hopeful expression blossoming over both their faces. "Don't come back to see me. Just don't," he repeated, ignoring Ron's open mouth and Hermione's stunned expression. "I don't want you to see me like this, all right? It just feels – permanent, somehow, when you're here – "

"But Harry, Dumbledore – "

"If you're not here," Harry persisted, "it's easier to think that it'll soon be over. Like I'll see you again soon, and everything will be fine. Please, Hermione – "

"Fine," Ron said, surprising Harry again by shaking his head at Hermione when she tried to protest. "He's right, Hermione – if he thinks it'll help him, then we should try – "

"You've been out of school for _two weeks_, Harry," Hermione was saying, obviously struggling to keep tears back. "We've missed you, and it's not healthy for you not to talk to anyone but teachers, especially if one of them doesn't exactly like you enough to bother talking to you – "

"Hermione, _please_. It's what I want, all right? I just – I just want to finish this and not have to remember more than three people seeing me in this state more than once in their lives…" Harry sighed, upset at the desperation colouring his tone. "I'll be fine, honestly, I will…"

Hermione pursed her lips, sniffed, looked hard at Ron (oddly, as if to say, _if you're wrong about this, I WILL kill you_. Which was odd because since when did Ron give Hermione advice about Harry?), and sighed. Harry relaxed, noticeably.

Really, if he was reading the Hermione-signs right, her acquiescence was practically in the bag.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 7: The Transformy-Thingy

Harry stared. He held the stare at his reflection long enough that Snape – yes, Snape – was the first to break the expectant silence.

"Potter, you ungrateful little _brat_ – "

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	7. Chapter 7: The Transformythingy

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_A/N: Oh yeah. It's a transformation in store for our dear, beleaguered Harry, but, I ask you – what kind?_

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**7 – The Transformy-thingy**

Harry stared. He held the stare at his reflection long enough that Snape – yes, Snape – was the first to break the expectant silence.

"Potter, you ungrateful little _brat_ – "

"Severus, please – " Dumbledore began, but Harry wasn't paying attention. The only thing that seemed worth his attention was the dark stubble he could just about perceive on his chin, the anxious look in his green eyes, the black eyelashes that had never seemed to look so dark and _black_ before –

"All that work, and he just stares," Snape was hissing, starting to sound really angry. "Look at him, Albus! Staring, examining – nothing will ever be good enough for him – "

"Harry."

Madame Pomfrey's soft, careful tone shook him out of his daze, and he turned to look in her direction without even thinking of it, brain still busily occupied with the oddly unfamiliar features he could see in the mirror as belonging to him, with the thin sameness of his hands, the black hair everywhere –

"How do you feel about the change?"

"Its," Harry began, then broke off, as he suddenly realised even his chest hair was back to normal, and looking stark against his palely muscled chest. "So black – "

"_So black?"_ Snape fumed. "I slaved for _seventeen hours_ on researching that _blackness_, Potter, so you'd better – "

"Thank you," Harry found himself saying, in a tone of wonder and – and something else. Something he wasn't sure he was supposed to feel, something he felt didn't belong in this moment – uncertainty. "It's just – disorientating, and…" Harry's voice trailed off lamely as the look of the thin beam of sunlight alighting on his slightly longer, messier hair catching up his attention entirely. Later, he'd be surprised that Snape didn't say anything at this point, but, for now, all he could get around was the absolute black he was just managing to see, curled around his painfully normal fingers, glinting a little brown here and there –

"You'll have enough time to acclimate yourself, Harry," Dumbledore said, taking over the conversation that seemed to be petering out at every turn. "You won't have classes today, while we see how well this works, and see how it wears. If this experiment proves successful – "

"As it bloody well will," Snape muttered. "Seventeen hours – "

" – you will be required, as we discussed, to return here for potions and checkups from Madame Pomfrey," she nodded at him, now rising briskly from the chair by the bed on his left and disappearing into the ward, as if everything was finally over – "and to speak to me about how you are coping, and to Severus when I am unable to be here," Dumbledore continued, as if she hadn't left, as if Snape wasn't huffing, small noises designed to display his contempt for even the walls of this room. Dumbledore leaned forward suddenly, worry creasing his old face, such strong emotions passing across it now that Harry was a little startled – "Harry, promise me that you will be careful from now on. The spells that Severus taught you – "

"I'll use them every day," Harry said, cutting him off. "I'll be fine," he insisted, to whom, he could not say. This moment just didn't feel right, just didn't feel as happy and cool and relieving as he'd thought it would, and Harry found himself wanting inexplicably to bury himself in the shelter of his wings, but –

Yeah. He couldn't.

Dumbledore gave him a long, hard look, then nodded and rose. "You know where to find me, Harry."

Severus snorted in the background, and suddenly, it was over, and Harry was being hustled firmly to his feet, and led out into the main Hospital Wing, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

"Harry," they both said, standing up fast enough to fall over, and they were hugging him in the next moment, and Harry wasn't quite sure if Hermione was crying or not, but he just didn't feel comfortable in this – this shell, this wingless, clawless, _helpless_ version of himself, and –

"Are you ready?" Hermione asked, after weathering a supremely condescending look from a watching, sneering Snape, her cheeks pink and a little wet with her tearful enthusiasm. For him. Enthusiasm that just wasn't –

"I guess," Harry said slowly. Hermione paused her shift-shift of the bag on her shoulder, and Ron gave him a sharp look. He was the one to speak, voice uncertain.

"Are you…?"

"I'm fine," Harry insisted again, ignoring the stares and whispers as the three of them threaded their way through the occupied beds in the Wing, his heart beating faster than normal. "It's just – I just feel – like I'm too light, or something. Like something's missing. Like a _lot_ of somethings are missing – " Hermione looked curious, and a little sad, but Harry wasn't really focussing on that anymore, because the slight hair on the back of his hands was so –

"Well, we can find somewhere for you to – "

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Dumbledore was really firm about that – said I had to get used to it. Which I will," he added, with a look back at the tiny, very shut door behind him, behind which was his burnt, smelly, feathery, _comfortable_ bed.

"I hope so," Ron ventured. "Right now, you just look so…"

"Pale?" Hermione tried, nerves showing in the slightly unsteady quality of her voice. "You look a little wan, like the colour's been leached out of you. Not that it doesn't look normal, or anything – " she added hastily, going a little pink even though Harry really – just – didn't _care_.

"Wan, eh? Well, that's how I feel," Harry said, morosely. "I just – I feel a bit guilty, because they all worked so hard, and I just want to be all red again," he said, voice rising, filling with longing. "Red, you know? Really red, and fiery, and – " He broke off abruptly, gritting his teeth. He had to be careful with this, with his emotions, because naturally he _wanted_ to revert to his gloriously free form, despite the uncomfortable familiarity of the black surrounding him. Harry bit back the desire to break his word and just turn into one of the abandoned classrooms and take it _off_ and _fly_, but only because Hermione and Ron were holding onto his arms, faces tense with worry and – fear.

Fear. They were afraid of him.

Harry drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to move on. It hurt, everything hurt, and he wanted red so badly just now –

"Ron? Can I touch your hair?" he found himself demanding. Ron paled and reddened dramatically, and actually let go of his arm, but Harry was absorbed by all that _colour_ and all those freckle peppering the skin of that face, and wanted to –

Hermione stepped determinedly between him and an evermore nervous Ron, and grabbed hold of his arm, heaving him along.

"Hermione, let me – "

"Dumbledore said that you had to work through it," she said, stubbornly, her tone forbidding in its own way. "Harry, please, just – just come on – "

Harry paused for a moment, slightly-alien-but-really-familiar desires warring within him, and thought. He'd missed her. Missed them both. He had to _try_. For his own sake, and for theirs, and his vassals', if for nothing else –

"Fine," he said, shortly, but Hermione smiled, and though Ron lagged prudently behind them, Harry could just tell he was smiling, too. And suddenly, he didn't quite want to be colourful anymore.

Well, not _now_. Dumbledore had given him a day, hadn't he? Twenty-four hours, that was all he had to wait.

And wait he would. Phoenixes were masters of that.

Harry gradually fell into his stride, ignoring the avid whispering that grew louder as they all headed for Gryffindor tower, the corridors becoming busier as they approached it. He ignored it, and them, because he could hang on to the fact that he would stretch his wings again, really stretch them, and _fly,_ no matter what Dumbledore said.

After all, he was only a vassal, and they sure as hell didn't tell their lords what to do.

* * *

Preview for Chapter 8: Back to School

Harry was bored. It had only been a week of this, of this normality, of going through with the things he'd once thought fulfilling and even exciting, and he was already bored to the teeth.

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	8. Chapter 8: Back To School

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_A/N: In which we catch up with Harry and see how school is treating him. Again._

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**8 – Back to School **

Harry was bored. It had only been a week of this, of this normality, of going through with the things he'd once thought fulfilling and even exciting, and he was already bored to the teeth.

The glory of being Quidditch captain was empty now, because he couldn't fly because he was a half-phoenix and had failed the careful tests Dumbledore had given him under the watchful eye of Madame Pomfrey every time. They had consisted of several trips to the Room of Requirement with his shrunk broom in his pocket and had ended, as always, with him transforming nearly as soon as he was in the air, contemptuously letting go of his feeble, complaining broom and really _flying_. Madame Pomfrey always ended the sessions with a healthy sounding out of him and Dumbledore for endangering Harry's health, and had put a stop to all sessions and all flying with or without broomsticks after the third one, during which Harry tried to lift Dumbledore into the air for some reason Harry couldn't even remember now.

Harry sighed heavily, flexing his slightly itchy back muscles, wishing for the hundredth time that he didn't have to be like this, wings away, red away, all normal and nauseatingly himself and not red. He took a deep breath, pausing before the shelf of books he was actually strolling past and not really searching, trying to will away the sudden need to transform. Transforming suddenly seemed to be the solution to his problems, now. Flinging off and taking down the complex disguising charms Snape had drilled into him before the end of his stay nearly always felt like releasing himself from painful bonds, and placing the charms on himself again like stuffing himself into a very small box.

Harry sighed again, reaching out an unwilling hand to a book that seemed to keep wriggling away, thinking it might be the one he was searching for, giving it up as the book next to it snapped nastily at his pale (too pale) hand. He hated the charms now with every fibre of his being, and secretly practiced removing and adding them more than was necessary every day so the horrible process would go quicker, and, during the day, often had to grit his teeth against the powerful urge to begin the sequence yet again.

Like he did every time he saw Snape, blood firing with the expectation of a real fight. Like he did every time he entered a room and found that conversations ceased, conversations he was bloody sure were about him and his strange, lengthy disappearance. Like he did every time he stepped outside for Herbology lessons or Quidditch practice (benched, for him), because he was outside and wanted to fly, instead of having to coach his nauseatingly sympathetic team from the ground.

Like he was pretty much doing now.

"I hear Potter almost died, but he used Dark Magic to recover – " he heard abruptly as he neared the end of the shelf, making him struggle not to pause in his search for _Magical Properties of the Mighty Mandrake_.

Harry scowled and kept on looking, trying hard to ignore the fact that he could hear the group of students whispering behind him (he'd looked, but only briefly) as clear as day. One of the worst things about having a ridiculous amount of rumours being spread about him (apart from the constant urge to rip up those doing the spreading) was being able to hear them all in detail. Even with his ears (which had stabilised into larger, horribly embarrassing hairy things) disguised, Harry could still hear a pin drop from five meters away. Which was more than enough to hear – what was her name? Vase, or Vain or something – say:

"Well _I_ hear that's not Potter at all. It's someone else, _Polyjuiced_, see – that's why he's always in and out of the Hospital Wing – "

"He doesn't even fly in practices now," someone that sounded like Jack Sloper feverishly agreed, making Harry draw closer to the nearby table against his better instincts. "I bet the impostor doesn't want to give himself away, so – "

"Hey, Sloper," Harry couldn't stop himself from saying, his tone as loud and friendly as Jack's was furtive and malicious. "Practice is cancelled today, all right?" He leaned carelessly against the empty side of the table, careful to look friendly and unassuming, as much as that helped these days.

Before the phoenix thing, unabashed awe and embarrassment had seemed to be reactions reserved to kids below third year (non-Gryffindors for third year and above). Now, however, it was all Harry could stand not to walk around continually barking out, "Stop looking at my shoes, they're not my face!" Jack was usually an exception, as two or three Quidditch practices had inured him to Harry's presence, but now, caught firmly in the act of spreading malicious (extremely malicious, Harry confirmed inwardly) rumours about him, Harry used fully his 'Mysterious Older Student' aura (which was more effective now) to devastating advantage, and firmly expected it to work.

And work it did. "Myeh," was all Jack seemed to be able to say in response, looking for the entire world like a rabbit transfixed before headlamps. Which got Harry feeling as hungry as he was vindictive, and therefore prompted the comment –

"It was this morning instead," he continued, as if Jack had not probably bitten his tongue just a moment ago. "Didn't anyone tell you?" Jack shook his head very slowly, a look of confusion coming over his face. "Andrew," Harry continued, changing his tone to 'puzzled and stern' instead after a quick look round informed him that Andrew Kirke, Jack's fellow Beater, was nowhere in the vicinity, "told me you couldn't make it, said you wouldn't wake up and all that."

"Well, of course I couldn't – he didn't even bother to try to wake me up," Jack said, now beginning to sound irritated. Harry shrugged, easily settling into his Disapproving Captain stance as he replied to that, thumping the book in his hand a bit for emphasis.

"I'd ask him to explain himself if he was here. See that you send him to me when he gets back, Sloper." Jack nodded fervently, and Harry turned away from the group, a vindictive smile rising to his lips as he threaded his way through the stacks to the relatively hidden library table he'd left Hermione and Ron working at.

Harry sat down gracefully, ignoring the stares from people he passed as he slid into his chair opposite a slightly pink-looking Ron and Hermione, who looked interestingly uncomfortable for two people whom he'd left studying. Except – _oh, they can't have been just studying. Because I can smell_ –

Right. Harry's face splashed with colour, and he immediately lowered his head. _That_ was unmistakeably the smell of arousal. Whose, he really, really didn't want to know –

"All right, Harry?" Hermione ventured, sounding a little puzzled, but definitely calm. Harry opened the book in his hands sharply, not looking her or Ron in the eye, because now that he thought about it, the table practically stank of arousals, and it was really – "Is that even the right book?"

"No," Harry said shortly, feeling a little surprised but not very as he realised he was paging through something entirely different, something that dealt with the moon, and – he peered closer in curiosity – feminine cycles of –

_Right_. "Must've got the wrong thing by mistake – " Harry began hastily, shutting the book and making to shuffle it away into the pile of unused books in the centre of the table, but not doing so quickly enough that Hermione's sharp eyes didn't catch a glimpse of the title.

"Harry, that's…" she started, a deeper blush taking over as her brain caught up with her mouth. "…a book about female menstruation and the moon," she continued, face brimming with a kind of horrified curiosity. "I thought you were looking for the Mandrake one – "

"I was," Harry said lamely, suddenly remembering why he'd actually made the pathetic excuse to leave the table as Ron's bored eyes, which had been focused on the open book before him, began to rove over Hermione's form with a kind of plaintive lust that was just – "Look, Ron, I can _see_ you."

"Oh, you're back – " Ron said, eyes snapping guiltily away from a place on Hermione that Harry found himself disapprovingly thinking was certainly _not_ her face. "What took you so long?"

"Most importantly, I think I can smell you," Harry continued, ignoring the slight look of confusion Hermione now had on her face. "It's really distracting, I'll have you know – "

Ron's eyes widened. "You mean – "

"Yes, Ron. Why d'you think I need that spell around my bed? Our dorm practically reeks of it – "

"Reeks of what?" Hermione asked, just at the same time as Ron nervously said something that sounded like, "Fair enough, mate." Hermione stared at him as he, reddening further, hunched over his book in an almost protective manner. "Harry, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Ron is," Harry couldn't resist saying, as he rose again, "and that's all that matters, thank you. I'll just, er – " he grabbed the erroneous book – " – return this, and get that mandrake book, then – " Harry gave Ron a hard look as he said this, hoping he would take the chance to explain to Hermione and perhaps – well – clean himself up. Or whatever it took to get himself to stop smelling of come.

Ignoring the nausea that washed over him, Harry took the opportunity to pause by the table of an ever-more flustered Jack Sloper for some more insidious intimidation, then, having located the stupid book, headed back for his table.

Hermione's cheeks were a bit pinker than before, and Ron was positively burning up, but what allowed Harry to sit down and pretend his friends weren't sneaking silly, moony looks at each other was the fact that the smell of _that_ was gone.

Harry sighed, feeling oddly comfortable for the first time that day, watching Hermione furtively stroke Ron's hand and watching Ron redden as it continued. Despite his uneasiness with his disguise, and despite the unspoken, yet glaringly obvious changes in the state of things between his friends, right now, he just felt…truly at ease. Truly content.

He only hoped it would last.

* * *

Preview for Chapter 9: Multiple Personality Disorder

"What was that about?" Ron asked, sounding resoundingly suspicious. An innocent look appeared on Harry's face so fast that he actually felt guiltier than before, while watching a confused, cowed Jack Sloper retreat back into the corner of his common room from which he'd issued to ask Harry why he'd deceived him earlier in the day.

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	9. Chapter 9: Multiple Personality Disorder

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_A/N: In which we see Harry reach a breaking point._

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**9 – Multiple Personality Disorder **

"What was that about?" Ron asked, sounding resoundingly suspicious. An innocent look appeared on Harry's face so fast that he actually felt guiltier than before, while watching a confused, cowed Jack Sloper retreat back into the corner of his common room from which he'd issued to ask Harry why he'd deceived him earlier in the day.

"Nothing," he said, still relishing the look of confusion he'd prepared just for the occasion. Jack had been almost touchingly confused and chagrined, and had gone away looking, simply put, like a kicked dog. Harry had to suppress a nasty smile at the sight, and had to suppress the urge to point and laugh like he could remember Dudley doing a few times –

"Doesn't look like nothing," Hermione said darkly, from behind her pile of parchment. "You almost grinned just now – "

"Because he was so weird about it," Harry lied easily. "I mean, you could really tell he believed I'd actually said something like that…" he trailed off as Hermione favoured him with a stern look. "What?"

"I never thought I'd have to say this, Harry," she said slowly, "but I'm starting to think the rumours about you are true." Harry stared at her, completely devoid of any intelligible answer to what she'd just said.

Especially since 'sod off, you flea-bitten close-clawed bitch' didn't in any way count as an intelligible answer.

"_Hermione_," Ron said, tone filled with horror. "You can't think – "

"Listen to me, Ron," she said, slamming down her quill, speeding straight into what Harry dimly recognised as full-on lecture mode. "Just think about it for a minute. I'm not saying," she said, cutting across Ron's sounds of protest, "that all that rot about Polyjuice and mental disorders – "

"Mental _what_?"

" – is even close to true," Hermione continued, ignoring Harry's indignant interruption. "What I'm talking about is the personality change thing – "

"_What_?" Harry said again, but Ron, to his surprise and horror, was nodding reluctantly, obviously having recognised what Hermione was so ardently hinting at. Harry grimaced – it just went to show that his belief that he'd heard _all_ the rumours was obviously very wrong – "Hermione – "

"Ron, can you remember how many times you've asked Harry about how he's holding up?"

"Well, yeah," Ron said, obviously ignoring Harry's glare. "I've asked him dozens of times, and he always says he's fine – "

"But does he ever _say_ he's fine?" Hermione demanded, giving Harry an 'it's for your own good' look. "I mean, does he ever just blow you off?" Harry tried to give Ron a firm, reminding sort of look. When that failed, he huffed and just rolled his eyes, because he was sort of half-sure he was safe from that enquiry. He'd been honest – well, partially honest, at the very least, with Ron and Hermione throughout the week, so hopefully –

"Well, it never seems like that," Ron said defensively, still avoiding Harry's eyes. "He always tells me something concrete about how he's doing at the moment – "

"Thank you, Ron," Harry said, hastily, feeling well supported. "Satisfied, Hermione?"

"Not in the least," she insisted. "Ron, what did he tell you last time? Which, Harry, before you object, was just before you went to the Hospital Wing after dinner, if I can remember clearly. I'm asking him for your sake, so don't glare at me like that."

"Hermione – " Harry groaned, inwardly wondering, _is she ever going to just let this go_ –

"Humour me, Ron," she said firmly, kicking Harry under the table, obviously meaning to shut him up.

"Well…he said something about not feeling like he had phantom wi- er, _things_, any more," Ron said, thinking hard. Harry sighed – that sounded so pathetic now –

"How awfully vague," Hermione said, giving Harry a pointed look. "Did he tell you he was having a headache?"

"No," Ron said, turning an accusing look onto Harry. "You didn't, did you? You said you were just going for a check-up that you missed – "

"How on earth do you know if I had a headache?" Harry snapped at Hermione. "I'll have you know – "

She rolled her eyes, looking very irritated. "What do you think? I went up to the Wing and asked."

"Hermione…!" This whole 'let me deal with this horrible, embarrassing mess' thing wasn't going to work if they just kept butting into his business –

"Harry, why didn't you just tell me?" Ron said, sounding more exasperated than anything. "I could have gone with you, just in case – "

"Just in case of what? Just in case I fainted along the way, or got hit by a falling suit of armour?"

"Well, I don't mean that, I mean – "

" – protecting me from falling bits of the castle, Ron? We both know I can get to the bloody Hospital Wing by myself with just a headache – "

"So you _did_ have one, then," Ron said, back-pedalling abruptly, looking just as satisfied as Hermione did now. "You know, Hermione, as much as I want to disagree, I think you might be right – "

"_Ron_…!"

"You're more evasive than ever, Harry," Hermione said, pitching her voice lower as more and more people around them seemed to tune in. "You never tell us what's going on – "

"That's because there is _nothing_ going on – " _except for the fact that I'm trying to salvage what remains of my dignity from THE HELL THAT IS MY LIFE_ –

"I call foul," Ron said, a little bitterly. "You told us not to visit when there was clearly a lot of something going on, didn't you?" Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to just – just breathe. It actually worked now, which was a blessing, unless he'd have been spouting fire Ron's way at this very moment. Which he actually couldn't do because he was taking potions that stopped it.

Which meant Dumbledore, Pomfrey and Snape had all inadvertently saved yet another pair of lives, the thought of which (more specifically, of Snape being told such news) cheered Harry up immensely.

"And you never get upset at all any more, Harry, it's really unnerving," Hermione continued, tone quietening even more. "I never thought I'd miss you being angry, but I do – "

"She's right, mate," Ron said, faced with Harry's open-mouthed, plaintive look of appeal. "I mean, you didn't even blink when Lavender asked you what your favourite colour was at dinner – "

Harry stared. _How on earth is that – all I've done was try to get better at not taking people's heads off when they ask me stupid things, and now they're complaining_ – he shook his head. Maybe he had to have a serious talk with these two, make them understand exactly how easy literally taking someone's head off might be for him now, because they just didn't seem to understand the situation –

"That," he calmly began, trying to make them see reason, "doesn't prove anything – "

"It does," Hermione said, sighing tiredly. "Everyone's heard the Polyjuice rumour – you knew she was trying to verify your identity or something, I could see it – " Harry blanched. So, what, simple intelligence or knowing the how-to of such awkward situations was off the charts as well as managing his now even flightier temper? He stifled a groan – that didn't say a lot for his actions pre-phoenixing, obviously –

"Hermione – "

" – and you didn't even _blink_," she persisted. "Just said it was lavender, and winked." Harry blushed, deciding to let Ron cut him off. There was really no excuse for that little comment, apart from the fact his brain had surmised that embarrassing that idiotic girl would prove more satisfying in the long term without getting him locked up.

"Which was actually pretty disturbing," Ron muttered. "Especially for her – " Hermione shook her head, now looking more amused than disturbed.

"I know, Ron – looked like she couldn't choose which to die from; joy or frustration – "

"You two are ones to talk," Harry said now, forcing his tone to be nothing more than mildly accusatory. If they were going the way of the implied crush (which Ron was so totally gearing up to imply right now), he was damned well going to make sure they paid for it "You've practically been drooling all over each other all week, and you haven't said anything to me about it…." His voice trailed off, nicely effective, leaving him with a feeling of inordinate satisfaction at how both of them blushed.

"You're doing it again, Harry," Hermione managed to say. "Fobbing us off, fobbing everything off – "

"I'm not fobbing anything – "

"All I'm saying is it's not you, Harry. Well – you've never been able to do it as easily, I mean – "

"Oh, thanks very much, Hermione – "

"I'm serious," she said, tone going deadly so. "That's why everyone's still talking so much about it, Harry. A lot of what you do and what you say right now is just not you, and it's frightening Ron, and it's frightening me. You have to deal with it, Harry…"

"Fine, I will," Harry sighed, rubbing at his eyes in frustration at the seemingly never-ending talk. "What?" he snapped, seeing Hermione and Ron give him another look of dismayed surprise.

Ron hedged, colour showing again in his cheeks. "Well, Harry – "

"Just spit it out, Ron." When it looked like Ron's embarrassed reply was not forthcoming, Hermione answered for him.

"Well, Harry, agreeing with what I say is…sort of not very you, either."

Harry put his head in his hands, trying to rub away the ache that had suddenly reasserted itself in it again.

"You okay, Harry?"

"No, Ron, I am not okay. My head is hurting, thanks to you two – "

Hermione sighed. "That's another thing you keep doing, Harry, blaming us – "

"Fucking shut up," Harry said flatly, kneading desperately at his head, ignoring Hermione's affronted gasp. "Oh, my aching head – "

"Harry, is it your scar?"

"No it's not my bleeding – " Harry began, but then the ache suddenly concentrated right there, and it was all he could do not to let out a high-pitched yelp of frustration. Which his mind was still lucid enough to know would give the game horribly away, and resulted in a temporary shutdown of his vocal chords.

"Harry?" Hermione said, dropping her quill and coming to his side almost at the same time as Ron did. "Ron, has this been happening?"

"Definitely not, I check every night when he's asleep – "

"So much for fucking privacy," Harry growled, or tried to, but neither of them seemed to even hear him. Then the pain intensified, and he could barely even hear them –

" – potion? Any – "

" –umbldore said not to. Because – "

" – look at him, Ron! He's – "

" – try potion – "

" – open up, Harry – "

But all Harry could feel was the strange leadenness of his limbs, and it was all he could do to swallow the stuff that was coming from the glass shoved between his teeth, and then the pain intensified beyond all bearing, and his mind kicked in, seeming to know what was required of it –

Namely, darkness.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 10: The Shouting Match

"Harry?"

Harry groaned. He hated the way his life currently seemed to be wedded to this bloody room in the Hospital wing, hated the sight of that stupidly small window, hated the feel of the slightly lumpy mattress underneath him.

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_A/N: This one goes out to nightmarealley – your haircut WILL be fine eventually! (hugs)_

_Will stick this up on Skyehawke and on my journal when I'm not in quite such a rush. Adios!_

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	10. Chapter 10: The Shouting Match

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_A/N: In which Harry demands some answers and…doesn't like them._

_Er, warnings for this chapter, if that floats your boat: implied violence. Harry really doesn't like those answers, you see._

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**10 – The Shouting Match **

"Harry?"

Harry groaned. He hated the way his life currently seemed to be wedded to this bloody room in the Hospital wing, hated the sight of that stupidly small window, hated the feel of the slightly lumpy mattress underneath him.

Most of all, he really hated the way he never quite seemed to understand what was going on. Even now, as Madame Pomfrey talked at him and brusquely asked for symptoms and how he'd felt just as that bloody headache – scratch that, _scarache_ had come on, he could sense it. The taste of something that wasn't being said hung darkly in the room, and irritated him so much just now as his scar was tender and his wings were absent and –

"Mr. Potter? I asked you a question – "

"And I won't answer until you tell me what's going on," Harry found himself saying, phoenix brain having rapidly made the decision in lieu of his slightly politer human one. Madame Pomfrey looked severely discomfited, a sign both human and phoenix sagely took for a sign that there _was_ something he wasn't being told. "Well?"

"Mr. Potter, I need your co-operation to help you get better –

_Aha_, his phoenix side seemed to say, tone vicious with discontent. _It's looking very important, that thing-I'm-not-being-told_ –

"Oh just keep lying to him, for goodness' sake," Snape's voice said from somewhere disconcertingly far above his head, provoking another inward '_aha!'_. "You have something to say to me, Poppy?"

"No, I do not, _Professor Snape_."

"Ah," Snape said, sneering distinctly. "So it's _Professor Snape_ now that I've been proved right, is it, Pomfrey? And here was I, thinking that – "

"_Do_ get out of my way, Snape."

"Don't make it my fault that you two never listen to me," Snape said, voice gleeful with malice. "If I give some simple advice, and all you do to acknowledge it is to fly firmly in the other direction, I unfortunately cannot be held responsible – "

"Step away from my patient," Pomfrey said, almost – almost _snarling_, if Harry was hearing correctly.

"Oh, so you managed to learn medicinal Legilimency just before I got here, did you?" Harry nearly winced at the sheer amount of sarcasm that was contained in that voice, which seemed to be moving farther away. "How deliciously convenient, I have several projects demanding my attention, and I will just – "

"I'm not your patient," Harry interjected, before the bizarre little circus playing out before his eyes – ears, rather – completely got out of control.

"Mr. Potter, I asked you a _question_ – "

"And I told you my terms. Shall I take it that you refused them?" Harry went on, feeling tiredly for his wand as Pomfrey spluttered nearby, evidently so angry she could not put her thoughts to words. Which was deliciously convenient, just like Snape had said – "Right, then, so I can ask Professor Snape instead."

"Indeed you can," Snape said, voice coming closer again, sounding just as self-satisfied as it had a minute ago. "Spit it out, Potter."

"I'm warning you, Professor – " Pomfrey started, voice choked with anger, but Harry had entirely different ideas.

"Have my vassals been dosing me with something? I felt so lethargic last night after whatever potion my friends gave me – "

"Have your what?" Snape said instead of answering, tone brimming with nearly uncharacteristic amusement and disbelief. "Oh, this is just too beautiful for words – "

"POTTER – "

"I would like an answer within an hour, of course," Harry said, ignoring the fact that his ears were ringing from that shout from Pomfrey. "If it's not too – er – inconvenient."

"They've been dosing you with a variant of Kennilworth's Docility Doxium for the last week, Potter," Snape offered rapidly, still sounding immeasurably amused. "Effectively putting your mental processes to sleep as much as is possible while keeping you awake and functioning – "

" – DEMAND THAT YOU LEAVE THIS WARD IMMEDIATELY, PROFESSOR – "

Harry did not reply to either Snape or Pomfrey then, as he was not quite sure what to do. Or, more realistically, whose heart to rip out first –

Violating his _mind_, his being, his sanctity of thought. His mental processes, Snape had said – the very things that drove him, that held together his feathers and wings and claws and made him _great_ –

_Oooh. Someone is going to pay for this_.

"I suppose they intended it to douse your mental and physical fire temporarily," Snape continued, moving things about as Harry's Too-Useless-And-Untrustworthy-To-Be-Named Vassal sputtered and shouted somewhere in their vicinity. "However, as I managed to finish off the appropriate non-somnulent, non-inhibiting Dousing Doxium appropriate for your – ah – condition the day after your exodus from this room, that excuse is especially invalid. So, Potter, if your brain has felt more sluggish than usual recently (as hard as that might be to imagine), it can be attributed to the Kennilworth's, which Dumbledore has so far upheld as the potion to be given to you until the Doxium undergoes – or rather, underwent further testing. Now, if you'll just open your mouth, I can give you my own Doxium, and we will be able to sit down like adults and find out exactly what propitiated your little fainting fit this evening – "

"No," Harry managed to get out. "No, I will not."

"Excuse me, Potter? Without this Doxium, you are a danger to your pathetic little friends – "

"And that's why I will leave you alive, Snape," Harry said now, dredging up strength from goodness knew where to enable him to sit up and open his eyes.

"Potter, for goodness' sake – "

"Illuminarum venire," Harry began flatly, now able to see his Unnamed Vassal's blinking, scowling form at the little desk near the door preparing what could probably be more of that strange potion that she'd betrayed him with, and was about to pay for. Rapidly reeling off the incantations despite Snape's slightly alarmed commentary, he decided he'd destroy the table first thing, and began to rise to do so –

"I demand that you sit down _this minute_, Potter – your head is still in delicate condition, and Dumbledore – "

"Do not name him," Harry spat, taking in Pomfrey's sudden stillness with morbid satisfaction. "He does not deserve to be named – "

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED – "

Harry let the already building fire roll off his still-pale skin, deciding not to wait for the slowly, too-slowly releasing bonds of his disguise to release him, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it curled, diverting round Pomfrey to set fire to the smoking cauldron hovering over the desk. Snape gasped behind him and whipped out his wand, but Harry was already forcing the stupid git to the bed and trying to deprive him of the weapon, ignoring Pomfrey's distressed, stammered spells.

"Potter, _cease this instant_ – "

"You'll only live if you shut up and stop _fighting_, Snape," Harry snarled, not quite recognising the slightly high, dangerous tones issuing from his mouth, but grimly thinking it just as well.

It was about time someone took him seriously, anyway –

"_Stupe_faugh!" Harry neatly singed Snape as his emerging claws raked at the man's side prohibitively, prying the wand from his nearly inflexible grip as Snape cried out under the shock of it. And then he was up and away, wings starting to curl out of his protesting back as he sort of kicked Snape onto the floor, having abruptly decided to deal with his hated bed first –

"_Incendio!"_ Harry called, almost giddy as he felt the fire detach from him, swirling in and around the false magical flames to dance merrily on the now beautifully smoking bed as he turned round to deal with his cursed Vassal – "And now, for my worthless little vassal – "

But the door to the little room was bursting open, and Harry, still slightly lucid and thinking of how to survive in the school after doing in the shrieking woman, promptly dragged himself and her wriggling body out of the line of sight, his feet scraping horribly on the stone due to his obvious, but as yet unnoticed lack of shoes –

_Oh, shit, Dumbledore_ –

Dumbledore looked wildly around the room for a minute, but was soon closing the door and – Harry gasped inwardly – drawing out his wand, a saddened look on his face.

"Whatever spell you're thinking of, she'll suffer it," Harry pointed out, entirely reasonably by his standards, ignoring the crying and struggling his vassal was doing under him. "You know how fast I am, I'll just be there and _not_, and you'll just see her bleeding on the floor – "

"Think about what you are saying, Harry," Dumbledore only said, placing a strong locking charm on the door, which Harry realised was being pounded on. Alarmed voices seemed to be arguing outside it, voices that sounded like Ron, and Hermione –

Shit, there was no way out.

Well, not without having to do in his friends, which Harry wasn't sure freedom, blessed freedom was worth –

"Please think, Harry. Choose wisely – "

"Were you thinking about me _choosing_ when you dosed me into docility, Vassal?" Harry demanded, brain still trying to calculate how many people might just be outside that door. Dumbledore seemed to diminish a little, shrink a little before his eyes, and Harry could only think that it served the betraying little bastard right –

"We were not," the little bastard said, to Harry's surprise. "And we are deeply sorry – "

"And what proof is there that you won't try to charm my memory as soon as I let this disgusting little claw-biter go?" Harry said, mind suddenly realising there was really a way out, and one he'd not even thought of –

"I will swear," Dumbledore said, sounding distressed but not quite looking so, especially not from this angle.

"And Snape? And Pomfrey, here?" Harry snapped, rolling slightly so her sobbing form would be visible to Dumbledore. "And the Ministry? And any other unsuspecting wizard you might bring in for the job – "

"I see your point," was the faint answer. "Will you – can you – would you prefer an Unbreakable Vow, Harry? I can swear not to tell, ask or order anyone to memory charm you – "

"Headmaster," Snape suddenly croaked from where he'd been kicked to, "I am ashamed to admit that the boy has escaped. As painful as it is to say this, I also believe Pomfrey may be already dead – "

"Be quiet, Severus, you are not sensible," Dumbledore snapped, now looking oddly cornered. "Harry, please…"

Harry licked his lips, wondering what to do.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 11: Decisions, Decisions

If he gave in to Dumbledore's pleas – and they were just that, pleas, despite the admittedly attractive-sounding option of the Unbreakable Vow, which sounded, well, too unbreakable not to do some good – he would probably be perceived as weak, yielding and easily led. On the other hand, if he just slit Pomfrey's neck and legged it somehow (he wasn't quite sure he could kill Dumbledore, faced with that pathetic, desperate look), he'd be seen as a monster, and would be hunted down like one, Boy-Who-Lived or no.

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_A/N: You know, I was really conflicted about putting this up, thinking it was too sharp a departure from what I was writing. Perhaps I'm just in a bit of a bloodthirsty mood…? Anyway. Hope you liked it.  
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	11. Chapter 11: Decisions, Decisions

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_A/N: In which Harry makes – you guessed it – some decisions, and an interesting opportunity is presented him._

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**11 – Decisions, Decisions**

Harry licked his lips, wondering what to do.

If he gave in to Dumbledore's pleas – and they were just that, pleas, despite the admittedly attractive-sounding option of the Unbreakable Vow, which sounded, well, too unbreakable not to do some good – he would probably be perceived as weak, yielding and easily led. On the other hand, if he just slit Pomfrey's neck and legged it somehow (he wasn't quite sure he could kill Dumbledore, faced with that increasingly pathetic, desperate look), he'd be seen as a monster, and would be hunted down like one, Boy-Who-Lived or no.

And besides, he'd want Snape along, wouldn't he, if his disguise wasn't to become ineffective due to his limbs regularly emitting fire when he was pissed, and managing and managing to live with that would be nothing short of a Herculean task. And there was also the matter of his losing his friends and becoming the most feared wizard-phoenix in the entire world (as obscurely tempting as that might be)…

Harry sighed, already getting ready to roll off and kick away Pomfrey. As much as he'd like things to be different, there was just no way to win this situation.

"I'll go with the Unbreakable Vow, thanks," Harry said, voice almost as unwilling and disbelieving as Snape's expression looked from here.

"Oh, Harry, you won't regret it – "

"Swear on your magic," Harry said, blithely interrupting Dumbledore's almost disgustingly relieved tone, "that you will swear me a vow that is unbreakable, and term it as I wish – "

"Are you out of your _mind_, Albus?" hissed Snape, but Harry's vassal was already altering his grip on his wand and twisting it in a ceremonial wave that Harry instinctively recognised as the proper one, and saying, in the appropriately humble tones befitting the ceremony:

"I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, do swear on all the magic contained in and about and ever perpetrated my person, to swear an Unbreakable Vow with Harry James Potter as indeed he wishes it, termed as he wishes it, with penalty as he determines it – "

" – there is only one penalty, you old fool, and it is too _much_ – " Snape was half-shouting now. But Harry could already feel the small vow solidifying between them, stretching out to him, and he opened his mouth to make his considerably short answer.

"I, Harry James Potter, do accept the vow and fealty thus displayed." Dumbledore looked mildly shocked, while Snape fairly howled with dismay.

"Albus, _why_ – "

"Because I do not want to see our Matron killed in cold blood," Dumbledore said, watching with bated breath as Harry began to rise stiffly, revealing a wild-looking, but otherwise all right Madame Pomfrey.

"But Albus – "

"He obviously had no qualms attacking you, Severus," snapped Dumbledore, suddenly uncharacteristically impatient with Snape's angry confusion.

"Albus, he _hates_ me – "

"Has he ever attacked you before now, save for that lamentable but justifiable incident in the Shrieking Shack – ?"

"Lamentable but _justified_!"

"Oh be silent, both of you," Harry ordered, rolling his eyes as Pomfrey refused his helping hand as she tried to get up. He was rather surprised when the little conversation _did_ fall silent, but took full advantage of it nonetheless. "I'm really hoping you warded that door against eavesdroppers, Dumbledore."

"I – er – the room has always been warded – "

"He attacked me and threatened to murder Poppy, Albus, and you're _humouring him!"_

"_Aguamenti_ – I asked for silence for a _reason_, Snape," Harry snapped now, easily dousing the slowly burning bed with jets of water from his wand. "I'd like to have that vow now, Dumbledore, if you please." He gave the old man a hard look. "Can we get started, then?"

"I understand, Harry," Dumbledore said, voice faltering with remorse that caught at Harry's heart just a little. Just a very little. "Is there anything else you would like to request?"

"Oh, yes, Headmaster, _lick my boots_," Snape muttered indistinctly, glaring at Harry as he approached him to help him up. "Keep your hands to yourself, you – you half-breed – "

Harry sniffed, actually more chuffed than irritated. "You really think so? Actually half-phoenix, or a little more than half – "

"Oh, Merlin," was all Snape seemed to be capable of saying, even as Harry tugged him to his feet anyway and placed his wand in his hand. "I'm asleep. I _have_ to be – "

"Severus, if you could furnish Harry with his wand…" seemed to rouse the shaken professor out of his little fugue, and Snape wordlessly extracted Harry's wand from his robes and handed it to him, before conjuring a chair and sitting as far away from him and Dumbledore as was possible within the tiny room. "Poppy, if you would – "

"I can't believe it," Harry realised Pomfrey was muttering now, as she shakily put out the flames dancing slowly on the little table by the door. "Six years of healing him, and he attacks me – "

"If it makes it any better, I was really very angry," Harry said uncomfortably, after a short, horribly awkward silence. He sat down on the side of his bed, not knowing what else to do or say, and a sudden shard of guilt pierced him as Snape seemed to struggle briefly against some sarcastic comment or other. That shard was still investigating his insides when Snape finally broke the stuffy silence, his tone at its wryest and most sarcastic.

"Oh, you were angry, Potter? I didn't notice – "

"Severus, please," Dumbledore said, voice a weary (for him) monotone as he cautiously conjured a seat just in front of Harry and took it immediately, giving Snape a disapproving look as he did so. "You really are not helping the state of things – "

"And _you_," Pomfrey suddenly broke off from her muttering, spinning to face Snape in his corner of the room. "You watched him _set fire to the table_ and you. Did. NOTHING!"

"I seem to remember you screaming at me because he was _out of bed_ – "

"INGRATE!" roared Pomfrey, startling Harry and Dumbledore. "_FOOL!_ I DON'T KNOW WHY ALBUS TRUSTS YOU! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY YOU-KNOW-WHO TRUSTS YOU, YOU LOUSY EXCUSE FOR A DEATH EATER, IF YOU DON'T KNOW TO CURSE SOMEONE SETTING FIRE TO A _POTION_ – !"

The only person that seemed to have an answer to that was Dumbledore, and his answer was a rather pathetic, uncomfortable clearing of the throat, followed by a hard look in Snape's direction. Harry hazarded a look at the man himself, and was not a little shocked – Snape was twitching in a most disturbing manner, and –

"Severus," Dumbledore said, voice oddly gentle. "Pull yourself together, please. We need – "

"A bonder," Snape finished darkly for him. "Sometimes I wonder why I am not mad already, what with your orders and your seeming lack of common – "

"Insulting each other isn't going to get that bond in my magical signature, Snape," Harry found himself saying, rubbing tiredly at his head as both Snape and Dumbledore stared at him yet again. "Can we just get over with it?"

"I – you – " was all Snape seemed to be able to say, his face twisting with the most painful disbelief Harry had ever seen on it.

"Would you like to state your terms, Harry?" Dumbledore said, ignoring the jerky way Snape was approaching after hauling himself to his feet like a man forced to do something against all his instinct and reason.

"Harry?" Harry blinked a little, touching his hand to his aching head again as he avoided Madame Pomfrey's hard, guilt-inducing look as she prodded a wobbly Snape into a chair just between Harry and Dumbledore. "Take my hand. Now, please state each clause of our agreement, and I will swear to it."

Harry, nerves suddenly assaulting him from all possible directions, thoughts whirling dizzyingly with everything he knew he had to say, took Dumbledore's injured right hand as carefully as he could, and began to recite.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 12: Reawakening No. 1

Harry opened his eyes bemusedly, wondering why he felt so different. So free. Then he shifted and stretched his wings out of habit, and realised, very suddenly, that he had not concealed his transformation last night.

If it had been night at all, when he'd woken up last in this place –

And then the burnt smell on the sheets was suddenly sharper than sharp, and memories of pure, unflinching anger and fire were suddenly chasing themselves down his thought passages, and Harry was rearing off the bed, unable to stand the smell, the reminder of his violence –

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_A/N: This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write, and even moreso to justify, which doesn't surprise me. 'Tis the first of the (probably many) Major Departures From The Hallowed Outline that I've done in this series, and it's a bit scary since it comes so early. But it is essential for all of you to see that Harry does have problems with controlling his phoenix side, even if he doesn't quite realise it yet. Oh, and that his unpredictability's going to be both a great advantage and great disadvantage to him. Hope you liked it! The next one should be along pretty soon – maybe after I've finally produced some sort of cohesive first draft for **Part The Third** chapter 5. Till then, dearies!_

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	12. Chapter 12: Reawakening No 1

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_

_A/N: Harry reawakens after his little outburst and the Vow resulting thereof._

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**12 – Reawakening No. 1**

Harry opened his eyes bemusedly, wondering why he felt so different. So free. Then he shifted and stretched his wings out of habit, and realised, very suddenly, that he had not concealed his transformation last night.

If it had been night at all, when he'd woken up last in this place –

And then the burnt smell on the sheets was suddenly sharper than sharp, and memories of pure, unflinching anger and fire were suddenly chasing themselves down his thought passages, and Harry was rearing off the bed, unable to stand the smell, the reminder of his violence –

"Oh, for goodness' _sake_," Madame Pomfrey's irritated voice triggered even more guilt, more memories, and Harry suddenly couldn't hear what she was saying because of the roaring, rushing guilt whistling through his ears, the itching of the very skin of his body that concentrated around his right, which felt like those awful red flames were still binding his hand to Dumbledore as a disapproving Snape looked on suspiciously as Harry's hard voice continued to speak in clauses and terms and – "Potter, please calm down. _Please_ – "

"What on earth is wrong with him now?" came Snape's voice from nearby, as Harry tried desperately to burrow into the darkness under the bed, ignoring the way his feathers were sloughing off in his struggle, ignoring the strong hands that were wrenching him away from the comforting, anonymising darkness just beyond, just out of reach – "Good god, Poppy, he's so pale – "

"Pale?" A gasp sounded over Harry's aching head as he struggled against what his mind dimly recognised as Snape's firm, detaining hands. "My goodness, you're right – "

"I thought he was asleep," Snape said, sounding weary as Harry gave up his struggles abruptly, realising they weren't working in the least. "He certainly seemed to need it after that little tantrum of his. Do you think it is withdrawal? That is the only thing that comes to mind – "

"Withdrawal, and the fact that he didn't take your Doxium," Pomfrey replied, sounding frazzled and farther away by the minute as Snape hauled Harry onto the burnt bed again. "If you hadn't been gleefully telling tales, you'd have known to actually give it to him, Snape – "

"How was I to know he would set fire to the room?" Snape said, sounding angry.

"I – " Harry felt himself say, horror seeping into his very bones as the images coalesced in his skull, into the picture of just that – "I wasn't dreaming?"

"Good god, it _is_ withdrawal," was Snape's only answer. "Makes one wonder if withdrawal was not to blame for this morning's – "

"Hopefully next time you won't discount my advice," Pomfrey snapped, her voice sounding closer as the busy footsteps echoed in Harry's head oddly, as if it was emptying or already empty. Snape continued to wrestle him onto the bed, trying vainly to prop him up as his wings made things difficult, and Harry just felt oddly like he didn't belong in his body –

"What did I…" he began, and Snape laughed sourly.

"I find myself agreeing with you yet again, Poppy," he said simply, obviously not talking to Harry or even recognising that he was speaking at all. And that little slight suddenly made anger coil again in the pit of his stomach, and his hands itch to spout fire – "Don't you _dare_ lose your temper again, boy," Snape insisted, finally settling him into a sitting position. "For all you know of your abilities, you could set fire to us and conflagrate even yourself, you foolish child – "

"Speaking to him like that will not help, Severus," Madame Pomfrey said tightly, approaching Harry with an oddly cautious bent to her shoulders, a goblet of something dreamy-smelling in her hand. "Do you feel up to holding this goblet by yourself, Potter? Or do you – " Snape snatched away the goblet before she could even finish what she was saying, setting it firmly on the bedside table and out of Harry's reach as he turned to glare at him. Harry found himself unusually willing to glare back – how dared he –

"I will only offer this once, Potter," the firm, almost calm statement jarred Harry out of his gathering temper, making him stare, surprised, at the glaring man before him. "If you have any sense, you will take advantage of it."

"I don't need – "

"Think very carefully about the absolute stupidity of that statement, Potter," Snape cut in, voice still calm. "You nearly murdered Madame Pomfrey mere hours before now. With a smile on your face, I might add." Harry shut his mouth, cold guilt and worry seeping through him as he looked down at his clenching hands.

It felt so, so different to have someone say it out loud. To have someone call him that –

_Murderer_ –

"Dumbledore believes," Snape continued, voice displaying a very real disgust, "that you are competent to deal with your little tantrums when they occur. Dumbledore believes," his dark eyes bored into Harry, "that the knowledge of the Vow will keep you from such actions in the future."

"Obviously, you don't," Harry pointed out, trying to ignore how hoarse he sounded. How weak. "Just get on with it – "

"I offer, therefore, to aid you in discovering what you can about your…situation as a half-phoenix." Harry looked up sharply, hating the way both joy and pride mingled in his heart at those words, the way even his skin seemed to bloom with fierce acknowledgement of that fact, the way a corner of his mind mourned that the potion that had done this had been stronger, had affected him more – "Until you know the root of your impulses and how they affect you, you will be unable to control them, and you will never overcome the dependency you eventually develop for my potion, Potter," Snape continued matter-of-factly, ignoring Harry's embarrassment. "Which is why I am now offering to help. To train you. Do you accept, Potter?"

"Professor," Harry said slowly, shame returning abruptly as he remembered – "I didn't – I would like to apolo – "

"Save the relief of your pathetic guilt for someone who cares, Potter," Snape sniffed, rising from the chair Harry hadn't really noticed he'd been sitting in. "I assume that that means you accept?"

"Um – "

"Splendid," Snape said, cutting him off again with a look that said that he felt it was anything but. He sighed as he handed Harry the goblet, giving him a sharp look as he fumbled slightly with it. "And no, before you ask, Dumbledore did not put me up to this." Harry, already set to drink down the potion in his hand, paused and shut his mouth, trying not to grind his teeth and shout in vindictive joy at the same time. The perceived betrayal still lingered oddly from the events beforehand, and despite the fact that training or working with his hated professor would be anything but pleasant, it gave Harry a very visceral satisfaction to know that it wasn't Dumbledore's idea.

Harry downed the potion, trying not to look anywhere in Pomfrey's direction as she levitated it off his bedside table, where he replaced the goblet. His head still ached, but with less insistence and far less emotion than before, and he could almost feel the tingles of magic weaving itself into his tired body as Snape stamped about the room, mixing this and that, gathering up ingredients from here and there that Harry couldn't remember seeing from the first time he woke up.

"Poppy, I must be going," Snape said firmly, lingering oddly beside the door as Madame Pomfrey began to _Scourgify_ everything seemingly in sight. "The brats should be returning from Hogsmeade right at this moment, and I must – "

"Hogsmeade?" Harry interrupted, heart sinking within him. "But I thought that was on Saturday…" he trailed off as Snape levelled a scathing look in his direction. "Oh."

"Don't tell Albus anything," Snape added easily, almost familiarly, as Madame Pomfrey gave him a dubious look. "Let the old meddler find out when next the boy almost kills someone else, so I can gloat properly." Pomfrey shook her head disapprovingly, but huffed in a sound Harry could sort of tell was meant to be affirmative. "And Potter?" Harry looked up, feeling vaguely guilty for listening to that little, oddly private exchange. "Do try not to kill yourself _or_ your Matron before you are released."

Harry bristled half-heartedly as Snape left, smirking. Another potion was set before him, causing guilt to wash over him again as Pomfrey gave him a sort of 'drink it, and drink it now' look.

"Erm," he began lowly, as she turned away after watching him struggle down the slightly lumpy potion with a very severe look on her face, "I think I should apologise – "

"I'm afraid I'll ask you to save it as well, Harry," Madame Pomfrey said, very seriously. Harry's shoulders drooped. "As long as you keep yourself out of trouble from here on, I'll be quite satisfied…Mr. Potter, what on earth do you think you are doing?"

Harry paled, paused in the action of rising from the bed. Her tone of voice had been so final that he'd assumed he was practically being booted out of the Wing for now.

Apparently not. "You're not leaving until Professor Snape has had a good look at your scar, Potter, I assure you. Make yourself comfortable." And, though the last sentence was said in the tone of an unmistakeable command, Harry found himself obeying with good grace. It seemed, his phoenix mind cautiously thought, that his vassals had finally remembered their place.

Well, one of them, at least.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 13: Back to School, Redux

Ever since the Vow, everything had become even more distorted than usual. Harry turned abruptly, heading for the library, not even registering the way people slipped out of his way. It was like he'd been living in a sparse, yet familiarly furnished dream world before the evening when Pomfrey, Snape and Dumbledore had met with him after his second fit of drowsiness. Now, however –

* * *


	13. Chapter 13: Back To School, Part 2

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_A/N: Harry returns to school, and finds the experience a little different. _

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**13 – Back To School, Part 2**

Harry scowled at the retreating backs of his two friends, wondering why on earth everything had to be so hard now. He stood there in the corridor for a moment, staring after them, indifferent to the avidly suspicious looks the students chatting around him were sending his way.

Ever since the Vow, everything had become even more distorted than usual. Harry turned abruptly, heading for the library, not even registering the way people slipped out of his way. It was like he'd been living in a sparse, yet familiarly furnished dream world before the evening when Pomfrey, Snape and Dumbledore had met with him after his second fit of drowsiness. Now, however –

Harry turned the corner, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his senses lazily warned him of his approaching a crowd. He didn't bother looking around the sparsely populated corridor like he had been doing all day yesterday whenever he got that odd, twitchy feeling about some irrelevant fact, because it had always proven itself quite true soon after he got it, and – well, and he was tired of second-guessing everything, really.

Without the Dousing potion (and, incidentally, with a small dose of Snape's disgusting Doxium every two days) his senses were almost nauseatingly sharp, and strangely selective to boot. Harry suppressed an embarrassed grin. He could understand phoenixes needing to know who their friends and enemies were and who was currently around them, and he could also understand them being on freakishly high alert every morning. What he couldn't understand was why he now definitely knew the name of every girl in sixth year (and those of quite a few in seventh) as well as who they spoke to and what classes he shared with whom.

"Afternoon, Madame Pince," he said easily, sending a calm smile in her direction. She looked momentarily flustered, as did most of the teachers he now found himself greeting automatically. That was another thing he found himself doing more and more – once he'd noticed someone was there, it was horribly hard not to somehow inform them of that fact. Not that that helped the stories of his being an impostor impersonating himself any.

Not that he really did care about those any more. Harry let his calm smile stay in place as he asked Madame Pince for recommendations from the phoenix section (an interestingly detailed section of the library, the way Hermione told it), and as Pince finished reeling off a list of books to see, she actually gave him a severe smile for his trouble. Harry felt an odd sense of contentment drift over him as he nodded and thanked her politely, and felt it increase as he found his way to the section (Pince had given him what counted for step-by-step directions, which was nice of her) and began to browse.

That was new, too, sort of. In hindsight, it had probably been creeping up on him ever since he was allowed to change once or twice a day to his real form, but _now_… Harry sighed happily, ignoring the way a group of third years at a nearby table jumped and stared. At times like this, when he was doing exactly what he thought he should be doing at the particular point in time, he felt markedly more content than usual. And that was all despite however angry he was with Ron for some obscure reason he was trying to suppress (that morning, for example, Ron had used his towel by mistake, and it had been niggling badly at him the entire day), or with Dumbledore and Snape for a more concrete reason.

Which was this: it was the Monday following his horrid little scar attack on Saturday and subsequent, er, Pomfrey attack (he still felt guilty about that), and neither of them had contacted him to speak to him despite the long session they'd held with him on Saturday night, questioning him about all sorts of stupid things to do with his scar itching in the mornings at 2am (which he could not remember happening even once) and to do with whether he was having dreams about Voldemort's current unhealthy obsession (which he was not). Snape had combed through his mind until the presence of Dumbledore and Dumbledore's wand (an all-too-tangible reminder of the Unbreakable Vow they'd sworn earlier) had been the only thing keeping Harry from tearing him a new hole in an uncomfortable spot, and had given him enough meaningful looks during Dumbledore's subsequent drivel on 'researching his condition' that Harry had expected something to happen, and to happen fast.

Which it hadn't done. Snape had practically ignored him at every meal since then, and Harry was sufficiently distrustful and impatient enough of the greasy bastard to take matters into his own hands for now. Which was why he was sitting at a library table piled with books with quirky titles like "Phoenix Lore for Lovers" and a complicated-looking expandable chart that looked frighteningly like it might be a genealogy of the British-born and burned phoenix. Surprisingly, the genealogy was the most interesting, and engaged his attention as he tried half-heartedly to trace the origin of the red-and-gold colouring which he sported in his true form, and it was like that, perched over a sprawling, heavy mass of parchment with crisp, ancient-smelling folds, that someone finally interrupted him.

"Potter." Harry jumped, wondering how on earth he'd missed the fact that someone had basically snuck up on him, and was speaking sternly at his right ear. The parchment and, irritatingly, the section Harry had just been looking at slithered unbecomingly to the floor in a cloud of dust, and he uttered something foul before turning to see who – "Detention." – right. It would _have_ to be Snape, wouldn't it?

"Sir," Harry began to protest impatiently, but Snape's eyes were gleaming and somehow conveying that he should just shut up and accept the bloody punishment, and he found himself hard-pressed to restrain that impulse. To obey.

"Merlin knows only hard labour will ever be able to cure you of your rude tongue around your betters," Snape reeled off very convincingly. Harry glowered at him, and was slightly amused (and slightly guilty) to see Snape's eyes widen just a tiny, teeny bit, and not in anger. In fear. _Ha_.

The only thing that kept Harry from grinning was the ugly look on Snape's face. And when that and Snape were gone and Ron and Hermione (or RonandHermione, as he was starting to think they should be called, for being joined at the hip in such a manner) emerged from where they'd been observing worriedly to bitch about Snape being unfair (Ron) and to scold him for being so heedless of the genealogy parchment's demise (Hermione), the only thing that kept him from grinning was the sure knowledge that it would only fuel the impostor rumour to the level of someone actually trying to take him down so they could question him and perhaps free the Real Harry Potter.

Who was, right now, feeling more than free enough.

"_Muffliato_," Ron whispered, the look on his face very meaningful. Harry tried to relax into his seat as Ron and a disapproving-looking but obviously complicit Hermione sat down facing him – one irritating thing about being half-and-half was also getting that strange tingling when magic was cast around him. At first, it had been somewhat of a novelty, but now, it was no more novel than the state of his hair, and rather more irritating instead. It always got him keyed up when people cast the simplest spells around him, and it was so –

"You all right, mate?" Ron's kind, slightly worried question helped Harry relax like nothing else could. He smiled and nodded at Ron, feeling contentedly lucky – despite everything, his friends had never really changed, had they?

"Just a bit restless," Harry added for Hermione's benefit, as she loftily deposited the re-folded genealogy parchment before him. "Hey, I was looking at that – "

"Sorry," she said, looking a little contrite. "It's just that we've got something to tell you, and…"

"Oh," Harry replied, nodding, hard-pressed to keep another grin off his face. "Getting married, then?" It took about ten minutes of protesting that he'd just been joking and fending off Ron's narrow-eyed looks and Hermione's almost palpable embarrassment for Harry to back off and secretly think that they were probably planning something of the sort for the future, and finally get Hermione to tell him what she'd started out to do.

"You heard about Katie's accident, right?" she began, some traces of pink and the odd smell of her embarrassment lingering about her. Harry nodded – he'd been shocked to hear what happened to her on his return to the Gryffindor common room on Sunday evening. He'd been even more perplexed when he heard some rumours as to his involvement in it, but that was beside the point. "Well, what we didn't tell you then was that we saw Dung in Hogsmeade."

Harry blinked. Hard.

* * *

Preview of Chapter 14: A New Understanding

"Yes, Harry. And he was selling things, stuff that looked like it was from Grimmauld Place." Harry stared at her, shocked to the core. On one hand, Dung, deserving of his name, as usual, was stealing stuff from Sirius' house, and that was really callous of him, and he deserved to be cursed or shot.

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End file.
